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A Memoir of My Father, Noel Mathias. In England, in the Forties & Fifties. (From my memoir: Up to the Hills)

By Anita Mathias

Uncle Fr. Tony Coelho S.J / Noel Joesph Mathias

My Uncle Fr. Tony Coelho S.J. (left), Noel Joesph Mathias (right)

A memoir of my father, Noel Mathias, continued from here

My father graduated from St. Joseph’s College, Bangalore, while India, like the rest of the world, was in the throes of the Great Depression. He recommended to the British Minister, the head of the British Legation in Afghanistan, by his father’s friends, and worked in Kabul from 1940 to 1943 as a decoder for the encrypted messages that arrived from Delhi and London, highly confidential work, for there were seismic rumblings beneath the foundations of the Empire.

Later, a family friend, F. L. Silva, suggested an ideal profession–a Chartered Accountant—and so, using his share of his father’s legacy, he went to England to acquire a coveted British degree, eventually becoming Noel Mathias, F.C.A., Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants, England and Wales.

* * *

“This other Eden, demi-paradise, this precious stone set in the silver sea”

My father’s stories about his eight years in England were as familiar to us as the stories of our own childhood.It was a time of spectacular leisure, during which he spectacularly wasted time, in a way I myself cannot imagine myself doing. (He brought us up, you see, to never “waste” time!). He bought a Tube ticket in the morning, and spent the day, book in hand, circumnavigating the bowels of the ancient city, in the thrill of being there among those old famous names: Camden Town, Leicester Square, Clapham Common, Chancery Lane, St. Paul’s and South Kensington.

A single ticket in his pocket, he remained seated through movie after movie.  Listened in awful fascination to murder trials at the Old Bailey.  Bought tickets in “the gods” to watch the opera or Shakespeare in the Old Vic. Listened to Malcolm Sargent conduct Handel. Hung out listening to the orators at Hyde Park. Read the best writers of the time as their books rolled off the presses, Virginia Woolf, Andre Gide, Orwell, Aldous Huxley, D.H. Lawrence and E. M. Foster, books he brought back to India with him, and which I read too—though, alas, too young to really appreciate them… Similarly, the classical music LPs he brought back from England were his joy and delight. He would sit in the evening listening peacefully to the Pastoral Symphony, the Jupiter Symphony, the Trout Quintet, Pathetique, or the Moonlight Sonata,

* * *

Through serendipitous grace (or are serendipity and grace the same thing?), my father boarded with a colourful Evangelical family, the Ponsfords, of whom he always spoke, nostalgically, affectionately!

Mrs. Ponsford, a rare, obliviously colour-blind woman in the blithely unpolitically correct world of the Forties and early Fifties, opened her heart and home to the flotsam washed up in London, then the heart of the heart of the world.

As a lodger, my father rubbed shoulders with them.  He told us of braggart Arabs, who’d arrive at breakfast saying, “We’ll lick them; we’ll obliterate them; just you wait and see,” even as Jews were being smuggled past the British blockade into the Palestine of the British Mandate, and the State of Israel was inexorably born.

He told us of a fellow-lodger, a Nigerian who contracted tuberculosis, to whom Mrs. Ponsford gave the bedroom of her son Ian, a hero fighter Pilot in the R.A.F.  (Never has so much been owed by so many to so few. This was their finest hour, my father often murmured.) Mrs. Ponsford’s race unconsciousness was far in advance of her family’s; Ian, back home, paced the drawing room, furiously muttering, “Mum has given my room to a tubercular ni**er!”  Each morning, each evening, the said Nigerian yearning for his warm, green continent, rushed down to check the mail cascading through the golden slit in the front door.  “Oh stop that,” Ian snarled.  “Who do you know who can write?  And, anyway, you can’t read.”

The Ponsfords took in a German Jewish war orphan, Anita, of mute, black rages, who each morning took her bowl of porridge, sweetened with precious rationed sugar and threw it at Ruth, the Ponsford’s warm-hearted daughter.  “Ignore her, Ruth, ignore her,” Mrs. Ponsford said, citing a cruel but sure cure for tantrums, and so Ruth continued stolidly eating her own porridge, Anita’s porridge coursing down her cheeks.

* * *

 How vivid were his memories! He told us of West Indians rushing onto the field after cricket matches, flinging their jubilant bats into the air, singing, “Crick-et lubb-er-ly cricket”–or so he said.

He enjoyed the English all-weather greeting, “Nice day, inn’t,” and the folk wisdom, “Cast not a clout, till May is out.” Getting drunk in pubs with his friends while singing Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai, Je te plumerai la tête. And when he translated that, we were horrified.

 He described casual racism: visiting Oxford on Saturday evenings with Hamish and Ian and Keith, Ponsford sons and their friends; the drunken English boys swaggered beneath the windows of Balliol College (which then admitted a larger proportion of men from Africa and Asia than the others) and yelled, “Come on, Balliol, send down your niggers.”  In contrast were his Sunday afternoon idylls, when he drove to Cambridge on Sunday afternoons with Mr. Ponsford, a Cambridge man, to nostalgically stroll on the tranquil Backs, amid timeless beauty.

He described sirens wailing as he banged on doors, badge and papers in hand, during his evening job as an air raid warden (part of his mandatory national service). Flashing his air-raid warden’s badge to get the recalcitrant to put off their lights, and adjust their blackout curtains so as to provide no unwitting direction to Hitler’s  Luftwaffe.

My father often told us of sitting around the radio with the Ponsfords, and  listening to Churchill’s famous broadcast in 4th June, 1940, We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. And then, four hard years later: Listening to the Shema from newly liberated Belsen, amid reports of unimaginable atrocities.

There was war-time rationing during all my father’s eight years in England. While he turned over his coupons for butter, sugar, cheese, jam, bacon, meat, eggs, milk and tea, to Mrs. Ponsford who cooked meals for all the lodgers, he kept his confectionary coupon (12 oz. every 4 weeks, which he spent on chocolate which he consumed in one fell swoop in a glorious theobromine high. (When I went to England, thirty-two later, this was his main advice: “everywhere you go in England,  you will see sweet shops.  Look the other way.)  Picking fruit in Europe with Hamish, Ian and Keith after the War.  Going, as a lark, to an International Festival organised by the Communist Party of East Germany in East Berlin in the early Fifties, because it was cheap; he danced Eastern European folk dances; listened to concerts of classical music; and saluted, proclaiming Freuden, Freedom.

He volunteered in an Institute for Cold Research–luxurious room and board in return for submitting to research on what accelerated or abbreviated the common cold.  Gamely, he went from a hot bath to a cold room, and sat in drafts, the researchers apparently unaware of Benjamin Franklin’s discovery that cold does not cause colds. The food was excellent, the Institute quiet, and so he submitted to something he must have winced at in his later health-conscious years!

* * *

 I wish my father had absorbed evangelical Christianity from the Ponsfords, but, despite an intellectual interest and perhaps, even an intuitive understanding of their faith, he never succumbed to religious fervour, was perhaps too conventional and conservative to “get religion.”

I went to a Reformed church in my twenties, and tried to explain   Sola Gratia, Sola Fides, Sola Scriptura, Solus Christus to my father, but he would have none of it.  “Yes, yes, I am going to hell,” he said, addressing  what I was puzzling over without words.  “And listening to this is a foretaste of it!”

Indeed, he remained, in all important matters, conservative and conventional.  For many years, he dated, but did not marry an Englishwoman, Marguerite, who took him to the opera, taught him to appreciate Beethoven, Bach and Handel, and introduced him to contemporary literature.  He talked about her with the utmost fondness when my mother was not around.

“Oh Pa, why didn’t you marry her?” I used to exclaim.

“Oh, it would have been too embarrassing!” he said.  “How would I have introduced her to my family?”

 

Dating English girls was fraught. He and Marguerite argued as they walked on the cliffs on a weekend outing, their voices raised. Though I cannot imagine my reserved father raising his voice in public, I guess he was then young. Royal Navy sailors hearing them, ran to her rescue. “Can I help you, Miss?” they asked. “Oh, the humiliation of it,” he said!

* * *

In his early thirties, he sneezed, he coughed, he blew his nose; he wanted to tear out his eyes.  He thought he had tuberculosis. TB before his coveted Chartered Accountant qualification? No!  So, every weekend, every evening, he sat in a park, breathing cool fresh air, so good for tubercular lungs. And sneezed and coughed the more.

In despair, he saw a doctor. It was not tuberculosis, it was hay fever, and his regimen of the pollen-filled air of Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens, and the Whipsnade Zoo was the very worst thing he could have done.

In his thirties, he began to lose his hair. He went weekly to the barber, and tried the recommended salves, tonics, lotions, potions. Finally, the barber said bluntly, “Now, there’s only shoe polish.” He recalled arguing with Mrs Ponsford about inerrancy. “And you believe that Absalom was truly suspended by his hair?” my father asked. Mrs Ponsford snapped “Leave these matters to the scholars.  Why do you say it could never happen?  Of course, it could never happen to you.”

 

His Random Gleanings from England

“All those Indians in England, talking about socialism and communism, and the evils of money.  They are now the pillars of the establishment.  The more a young man trumpets his disdain for money, the more avaricious he will become in middle age.”

 

“Learn to see through jealous people.  All my fellow Indians told me, ‘Mathias, you’ll never become  a Chartered Accountant,’ when they watched me have so much fun. But I did not get discouraged.  I did it.  In the end.

 

“I saw my first lesbians in England.”  “How could you tell?” I asked.  “Oh, they wore loose baggy shirts, dressed like a man, walked like a man” (I am sure his rule-of-thumb has probably led me to many unwarranted assumptions!)

 

“I spent hours reading in the British Library.  Whenever I saw a woman with thick glasses and lank oily hair,” he said (mildly misogynist like all his family were), “and peeked over her shoulder at the encyclopedia article she was reading, it was always about sex.” (I suspect this story was apocryphal.)

 

Another of his supposed true stories from London: A little old lady calls the police–“A man in the flat opposite is exposing himself.  He is stark naked,” she says outraged.  The Bobbies appear at her apartment. “Where is he, Ma’am. We don’t see anyone.” “Ah, but for that you need to stand on a table,” she explains.

* * *

He worked in the Accounts Department of India House in London until 1951 until he qualified as a Chartered Accountant, and then worked for Tubbs Clarke and Co., Chartered Accountants.

 

While he liked his boss who was fair-minded (and hired him after all!) he realized that he would always be held back by the petty racism of the English.  When an audit was requested, he heard his boss preemptively explain, “One of our accountants is an Indian.  Do you mind?”  Some did not.  Some did.  “It’s always best to ask,” his boss said, apologetically.

 

My father’s epiphany: “Why be a second class citizen in someone else’s country when you can be a first class citizen in your own?”

 

He returned to India in 1952 as the Controller of Accounts and Manager of Data Processing at India’s largest company, the Tata Iron and Steel Company, in Jamshedpur, North India, where he worked until his first retirement at 60, after which he was the Financial Controller of an American-run Jesuit Business School, Xavier Labor Relations Institute, until he retired again at the age of 68 in 1984.

At his retirement party from TISCO, a subordinate giving a classic Indian flowery speech, said, “Sir, you were like Jesus Christ to us.”  The Managing Director of the Tata Iron and Steel Company, Russi Modi called from the dais where their both sat, “Ah, if you had known him in his bachelor days, you would not have said that.” Gosh, what had he done? 

Two years after returning to India, in 1954, aged 38, he married.

My mother said she was very impressed when she arrived in Jamshedpur–with his large house; his new car, a silver Fiat; the radio, as big as a large television; the new set of matching furniture.

Gradually, the truth came out. His car was 50 rupees a month, the furniture 15 rupees a month, the radio 5 rupees a month. But his bride had been impressed, and he was happy.

He learned to drive colourfully, or so he claimed, accidentally driving over the leg of a cow, resting in the middle of the road in bovine and trusting contentment, killing a dog, a goat. I was empathetically imaginative and shrieked in horror at these details, so perhaps they were embellished for my benefit.

When he drove in traffic, he became a different person. My first word, my parents claimed, was “Idjit.” Whenever he braked, my father said, “Idjit,” and so I soon learned to say it before him.

 

(For the memoir I’ve written so far, click here.)

Goals

 

Start Date—August 27th, 2012

Completion Date—August 31st, 2013

 

Word Count Goal-120,000

Words per day Goal—550 words a day

 

Progress (Aiming to write 6 days a week, excluding Sundays)

Day 41—22722 (172 words over)

 

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anita.mathias

Writer, Blogger, Reader, Mum. Christian. Instaing Oxford, travel, gardens and healthy meals. Oxford English alum. Writing memoir. Lives in Oxford, UK

Images from walks around Oxford. #beauty #oxford # Images from walks around Oxford. #beauty #oxford #walking #tranquility #naturephotography #nature
So we had a lovely holiday in the Southwest. And h So we had a lovely holiday in the Southwest. And here we are at one of the world’s most famous and easily recognisable sites.
#stonehenge #travel #england #prehistoric England #family #druids
And I’ve blogged https://anitamathias.com/2020/09/13/on-not-wasting-a-desert-experience/
So, after Paul the Apostle's lightning bolt encounter with the Risen Christ on the road to Damascus, he went into the desert, he tells us...
And there, he received revelation, visions, and had divine encounters. The same Judean desert, where Jesus fasted for forty days before starting his active ministry. Where Moses encountered God. Where David turned from a shepherd to a leader and a King, and more, a man after God’s own heart.  Where Elijah in the throes of a nervous breakdown hears God in a gentle whisper. 
England, where I live, like most of the world is going through a desert experience of continuing partial lockdowns. Covid-19 spreads through human contact and social life, and so we must refrain from those great pleasures. We are invited to the desert, a harsh place where pruning can occur, and spiritual fruitfulness.
A plague like this has not been known for a hundred years... John Piper, after his cancer diagnosis, exhorted people, “Don’t Waste Your Cancer”—since this was the experience God permitted you to have, and He can bring gold from it. Pandemics and plagues are permitted (though not willed or desired) by a Sovereign God, and he can bring life-change out of them. 
Let us not waste this unwanted, unchosen pandemic, this opportunity for silence, solitude and reflection. Let’s not squander on endless Zoom calls—or on the internet, which, if not used wisely, will only raise anxiety levels. Let’s instead accept the invitation to increased silence and reflection
Let's use the extra free time that many of us have long coveted and which has now been given us by Covid-19 restrictions to seek the face of God. To seek revelation. To pray. 
And to work on those projects of our hearts which have been smothered by noise, busyness, and the tumult of people and parties. To nurture the fragile dreams still alive in our hearts. The long-deferred duty or vocation
So, we are about eight weeks into lockdown, and I So, we are about eight weeks into lockdown, and I have totally sunk into the rhythm of it, and have got quiet, very quiet, the quietest spell of time I have had as an adult.
I like it. I will find going back to the sometimes frenetic merry-go-round of my old life rather hard. Well, I doubt I will go back to it. I will prune some activities, and generally live more intentionally and mindfully.
I have started blocking internet of my phone and laptop for longer periods of time, and that has brought a lot of internal quiet and peace.
Some of the things I have enjoyed during lockdown have been my daily long walks, and gardening. Well, and reading and working on a longer piece of work.
Here are some images from my walks.
And if you missed it, a blog about maintaining peace in the middle of the storm of a global pandemic
https://anitamathias.com/2020/05/04/a-mind-of-life-and-peace/  #walking #contemplating #beauty #oxford #pandemic
A few walks in Oxford in the time of quarantine. A few walks in Oxford in the time of quarantine.  We can maintain a mind of life and peace during this period of lockdown by being mindful of our minds, and regulating them through meditation; being mindful of our bodies and keeping them happy by exercise and yoga; and being mindful of our emotions in this uncertain time, and trusting God who remains in charge. A new blog on maintaining a mind of life and peace during lockdown https://anitamathias.com/2020/05/04/a-mind-of-life-and-peace/
In the days when one could still travel, i.e. Janu In the days when one could still travel, i.e. January 2020, which seems like another life, all four of us spent 10 days in Malta. I unplugged, and logged off social media, so here are some belated iphone photos of a day in Valetta.
Today, of course, there’s a lockdown, and the country’s leader is in intensive care.
When the world is too much with us, and the news stresses us, moving one’s body, as in yoga or walking, calms the mind. I am doing some Yoga with Adriene, and again seeing the similarities between the practice of Yoga and the practice of following Christ.
https://anitamathias.com/2020/04/06/on-yoga-and-following-jesus/
#valleta #valletamalta #travel #travelgram #uncagedbird
Images from some recent walks in Oxford. I am copi Images from some recent walks in Oxford.
I am coping with lockdown by really, really enjoying my daily 4 mile walk. By savouring the peace of wild things. By trusting that God will bring good out of this. With a bit of yoga, and weights. And by working a fair amount in my garden. And reading.
How are you doing?
#oxford #oxfordinlockdown #lockdown #walk #lockdownwalks #peace #beauty #happiness #joy #thepeaceofwildthings
Images of walks in Oxford in this time of social d Images of walks in Oxford in this time of social distancing. The first two are my own garden.  And I’ve https://anitamathias.com/2020/03/28/silver-and-gold-linings-in-the-storm-clouds-of-coronavirus/ #corona #socialdistancing #silverlinings #silence #solitude #peace
Trust: A Message of Christmas He came to earth in Trust: A Message of Christmas  He came to earth in a  splash of energy
And gentleness and humility.
That homeless baby in the barn
Would be the lynchpin on which history would ever after turn
Who would have thought it?
But perhaps those attuned to God’s way of surprises would not be surprised.
He was already at the centre of all things, connecting all things. * * *
Augustus Caesar issued a decree which brought him to Bethlehem,
The oppressions of colonialism and conquest brought the Messiah exactly where he was meant to be, the place prophesied eight hundred years before his birth by the Prophet Micah.
And he was already redeeming all things. The shame of unwed motherhood; the powerlessness of poverty.
He was born among animals in a barn, animals enjoying the sweetness of life, animals he created, animals precious to him.
For he created all things, and in him all things hold together
Including stars in the sky, of which a new one heralded his birth
Drawing astronomers to him.
And drawing him to the attention of an angry King
As angelic song drew shepherds to him.
An Emperor, a King, scholars, shepherds, angels, animals, stars, an unwed mother
All things in heaven and earth connected
By a homeless baby
The still point on which the world still turns. The powerful centre. The only true power.
The One who makes connections. * * *
And there is no end to the wisdom, the crystal glints of the Message that birth brings.
To me, today, it says, “Fear not, trust me, I will make a way.” The baby lay gentle in the barn
And God arranges for new stars, angelic song, wise visitors with needed finances for his sustenance in the swiftly-coming exile, shepherds to underline the anointing and reassure his parents. “Trust me in your dilemmas,” the baby still says, “I will make a way. I will show it to you.” Happy Christmas everyone.  https://anitamathias.com/2019/12/24/trust-a-message-of-christmas/ #christmas #gemalderieberlin #trust #godwillmakeaway
Look, I’ve designed a journal. It’s an omnibus Look, I’ve designed a journal. It’s an omnibus Gratitude journal, habit tracker, food and exercise journal, bullet journal, with time sheets, goal sheets and a Planner. Everything you’d like to track.  Here’s a post about it with ISBNs https://anitamathias.com/2019/12/23/life-changing-journalling/. Check it out. I hope you and your kids like it!
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